A trip on the Tatshenshini River, from the Yukon to Alaska, takes paddlers through 140 miles of pristine wilderness.

Story and Photo By Linda Ballou

Floating swiftly on the silt-laden water of the Tatshenshini River, we enter the world's largest wilderness area that traverses international borders. A brown bear ducks into alders lining the shore, and I can hear the muffled din of whitewater ahead. Soon the river funnels into a narrow chute framed in jagged buttresses. A series of roller coaster waves and some frantic bailing later, we’re through the lion’s share of whitewater on this nine-day, 140-mile run from the Yukon in Canada through British Columbia to the Gulf of Alaska.

Once through the gauntlet we settle into a peaceful glide as a delicious warm wind licks the otherwise calm water. I prop my boots up, lean back on our stack of supplies, and settle into some serious birding. Eagles swoop about us, trolling for salmon. One snatches a fish with extended talons and flies off to a hungry chick waiting in a huge nest in the trees. Kingfishers play tag with us, flying low over the water and landing just ahead of us where they can watch us float by. A flock of nighthawks, rare in this landscape, flickers over the bow.

The Tat, as the locals call it, is a powerful shape-shifting torrent that carves a path from the drier altitudes of interior Canada through the largest non-polar ice field on earth, in Glacier Bay National Park. Twenty glaciers muscle their way through the St. Elias Mountains to meet the river's edge. The salmon-choked waters of the river provide sustenance for a myriad of mammals, including the grizzly, and 128 species of birds. In the 1990s, this mineral-rich region was nearly lost to a proposed copper mine. I wanted to experience this sanctuary, saved from devastation by caring environmentalists, so I returned to my homeland in the summer of 2006 to raft the Tat with nine other adventurers.

While our three guides set up the kitchen at our first camp, we were free to explore Silver Creek meadow, carpeted with shimmering yellow dryas. This pioneer plant is the first to take root in soil raked clean of nutrients by glaciers. It regenerates nitrogen in the soil, making the way for other plants. The feathery horsetail fern fills in the understory of the birch forests, and the abundance of brilliant magenta "River Beauty," a dwarf fireweed, makes this young country blush.

The densest concentration of black and Alaskan brown bears remaining on the planet resides in the Alsek/Tatshenshini corridor, where they can feast on the abundance of salmon, berries, and roots. Even though sightings are common, confrontations are infrequent. I slept peacefully in campsites littered with wolf, bear, and moose tracks.

No motorized vehicles are allowed in this roadless wilderness, and only about 500 people are permitted to raft the river in a short summer season from late June to mid-August. Mother Nature's murmurings, the constant conversation of the river, the ripple of a gentle breeze through the leaves of the cottonwoods lining the shore, and the screech of an eagle or Arctic tern overhead, were all that could be heard.

The Tatshenshini picks up steam and volume with the merging of the O’Connor River and numerous smaller cascades that join its rush to the sea. With each mile, the river grows wider and wilder, the mountains more majestic. With their backs to the coast, the mountains of the Fairweather Range on our left collect snow and block moisture from reaching the barren, south-facing Noisy Range on the right side of the river. When we merge with the mighty Alsek, the river volume increases to about 65,000 cubic feet per second. We float past the international border, ending our time in British Columbia, and arrive in Alaska at the base of Walker Glacier in Glacier Bay National Park. Across the river lies the Tongass National Forest.

As we make our way along a path across a ridge overlooking Walker Lake, apartment-size chunks of ice calve off into turquoise water with a thunderous roar that echoes through the stillness. Once on the back of the glacier, we hop over foot-wide aquamarine crevasses and make our way carefully, avoiding water pools and rivulets sculpting pathways through the living crust. A black bear silhouetted against the white glare of ice blocks our path home. I feel privileged to be a guest in his world as we wait patiently for him to make his way across the glacier.

Death Channel is clear of ice that day, so we are able to venture out onto Alsek Lake, encircled by huge glaciers. Chill air makes us feel like we have opened the door on the ice age. Our rubber rafts bounce off berg bits floating on the surface while the Alsek and Grand Plateau Glaciers boom out their chorus in the distance. We make our way to Gateway Knob, our last camp, form a fire line, and get our supplies on land in record time.

A fat marmot sitting on his haunches holds both black paws to his chest as he sizes up the aliens that just dropped into his flower patch. He goes back to munching yellow paintbrush as we hoist a canvas big top to keep us dry under threatening skies. Just as we are about to enjoy a hot bowl of chili con carne, a cruise ship-sized berg resting in front of our dining room decides to roll. An enormous chunk of ice crashes into the water, sending a wave pounding to shore at our feet and bringing home the power of the ice that continues to sculpt our planet.

Next morning, I unzip my tent to see a diamond-studded Alsek Lake. Frosty, 15,300-foot Mt. Fairweather, often obscured by mists, juts into brilliant blue skies. The sun shines brightly as we head into Dry Bay on the river now swollen to four times the size of the Colorado River. I feel a bit like Lewis and Clark must have felt when the scent of the sea and the sound of crashing waves drew near. Rafting the Tat is not just one of our last true wilderness experiences; it is an astounding journey through micro-climates and geological time. The unrivaled display of wild scenic grandeur remains pristine, thanks to those who cared to preserve it.

Linda Ballou is a freelance writer, based in Los Angeles, who specializes in soft adventure travel. Her byline has appeared in numerous national publications.

Northwest Travel Magazine January/Februray 2008